I really haven't been able to type. Still can't, really. Crazily, one of the fingers on my right hand seems to be the on/off switch (or 1 of them) for the eye spasm. I may put some audio posts up between now and the time I'm able to fully resume my digital (in every sense) responsibilities. Better go before I bloooow.


(Written on Saturday.)

If I stay away from highly populated areas, like the street in front of Mile End Station or the Stratford mall, a walk can be a useful respite from the tension of staying home to reduce tension. Better, I think, to embark upon multiple outings of lesser length than to go on one long walk which could lose its potency, mid-excursion.

Additionally, more frequent egressions help break up those lengthy, in-home detensification sessions, which also suffer from diminishing effects. (In fact, both can become a cause of that which they seek to cure.)

Anyway, I'm happy to report that my morning walk was nigh on perfect, proving without a shadow of a doubt that I could get to the big supermarket and back in time to watch the +1 rebroadcast of Ironside. My afternoon walk, however, (somehow) found me at that damned Stratford mall and its pain-inducing hubbub of low-income shopping frenzy.

Meanwhile, I desperately had to go to the bathroom due to all the water I drink to make sure my tensed muscles are protectively lubricated. I almost didn't make it to Morrisons in time!

By the time I got to the men's room door, I forgot to be calm and, leaping toward the piss outlet, I self-jostled my eyelid into what eventually became an almost full-forehead cramp.

Note to self:
Shorter afternoon walks.

Man, I try hard to recuperate but those long, regenerative sleeps sometimes feel (at least) as potentially fatal as they do regenerative. Fortunately, I also try hard not to completely ignore beautiful days.

So, I walked.

Outside!

And found a big supermarket. (Joy.)

Ate my sardine sandwich beside a beautiful waterway that led eventually -- though there were no guarantees -- right back home to me.

And the warm, frequent showers that relax my vibrating lids.

Feeling much better, I reintroduced masturbation and the gym into my life -- in both cases, gently.

Unfortunately, to go to the gym, I was forced to leave the house. (I've got a professionally-installed masturbation parlor at home, so I never have to leave to go to the masturbatoreum as most others do.)

The problem with leaving the house is that, on the verge of recovery, I get restressed to the point of near-crippling upper facial tightness by the invariably loathsome behavior of the others in the London street.

To remain calm, I found I had to repeat over and over in my head, "Let them win, let them win, let them wi . . . "

Seeing as how my quest for pure and perfect love -- or at least someone to have a donut with -- has thus far consisted mostly of me saying, "I'm on a quest for love," I don't see why it actually has to take a back seat to the warm showers and culinary asceticism of face pain mitigation that now comprise the majority of my oh, so cluttered existence. Therefore, I am declaring the quest back on!

I am, if you will, a man on a mission.

Now, should I lie down, take a another shower, make some more coffee or eat my leafy greens?

My quest for love has taken a back seat to my quest for a pain-free face.

I combatted the stress in a house of cruciferous vegetables, carrots, fish, wholegrains and eggs, on a foundation of strawberries and bananas, accompanied by refreshing glasses of soda with citrus fruit.

And 4/5 of a bottle of wine.

It seems when I page down with my right thumb, it causes my eyelid to go into a spasm. Fortunately, I have eaten about 10 eggs in about 40 hours.

Eggs, as we know, contain everything necessary to nurture a chicken to birthability from nothing. The egg came first. It is essentially the chicken's creator -- God in a shell. A wise congregation would pray to the egg.

Of course, I need more than one egg to regenerate as I am larger than a chicken. But I still have at least 2 left. So, when my body asks itself for the basic stuff of life in order to reknit my eyelid into a tear-shrouding model of "just born" stability. everything it needs will be as available as Yoo-Hoo in a well-stocked motel fridge.

I guess, in theory, by eating enough eggs, you could regrow a limb.

Or a wing.

I only hope I haven't eaten too many. I don't want to wake up covered with feathers.

That could only be bad as I sleep with a synthetic pillow.